Best in Show
by Keywi
Summary: It's Lord Tubbington's first cat show! And no one could be less excited than Santana. Brittana.


**Title: **Best in Show**  
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**Pairing: **Brittany/Santana

**Spoilers: **Mild spoilers for 3x13, canon compliant up to 3x17**  
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**Summary: **It's Lord Tubbington's first cat show! And no one could be less excited than Santana.**  
**

**Notes: **This is my first time writing Santana's POV, so here's to the hope that she's in-character (I usually do Brittany's POV). This is also my first attempt to write in present tense. If I switch to past tense inappropriately at anytime, I apologize. Also, I'm far better acquainted with dog shows than cat shows, so I'm sorry if any of my explanations and/or descriptions are incorrect.

Enjoy and thanks for reading.

Now to let my nerdy, cat-enthusiast self shine.

* * *

**Best in Show**

"It's today! It's today! Wake up, San!"

It's, like, five in the morning or something, on a Saturday, no less, and Santana has no intention of getting up this early. Saturday was a sacred day; it was, like, illegal to wake up before noon on a Saturday.

Santana weighs her options before opening her eyes: she could obey the voice commanding her awake, or ignore it and pull the covers over her head and go right back to sleep. She decides on the latter and wraps herself into a cocoon of blankets, dismissing the sing-songy voice.

Whoever invented five in morning ought to be dragged out into the street and shot.

But that damn voice is insistent and continues its pleading.

"Santana! It's time to get up—come_ on!_"

Santana opens her eyes only when she feels a slap on her ass punctuating the chant of _"up, up, up!" _Reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed, she slowly slithers out from the duvet, rubbing her eyes and hissing. Was the light in Brittany's room always this bright?

"It's 'bout time," says the voice, its patience with her waning.

When Santana's eyes finally adjust to the brightness of the room, she finds Brittany straddling her hips.

Now this was a pleasant way to wake up.

But obviously, her girlfriend recognizes the smirk that's growing on her face and corrects her suspicions.

"Sorry, San, it's not for that," says Brittany, "It's actually time to get up." She pauses, staring at Santana's disappointed frown. "You _do_ remember what day it is, right?" she asks.

_Oh fuck._

Is it their anniversary? Brittany's birthday? _Her_ birthday?

At this ungodly hour, it could be anything. Santana desperately wills the gears in her brain to work faster, trying to recall everything Brittany might've mentioned why today was different. But all she comes up with is a big, fat blank.

Brittany seems to guess Santana's predicament and takes pity on her. "It's cat show day!" she announces, her excitement oozing like syrup over pancakes. "Remember? It's Lord Tubbington's cat show debut!"

_Shit_.

That's right; she had agreed to help Britt show her fat-ass tabby. The memory suddenly flashes back in her mind as she sits up and she wonders why she even agreed. It was, like, something on Brittany's bucket list, she knew, and Santana was always up for helping her girlfriend accomplish those goals.

But if she had known that Lord Tubbington's first cat show required a wakeup call before the sun freaking rose, Santana would've added it to her personal _fuck-it_ list and chosen to sleep in and let her chipper early bird take the cat to his show by herself.

But, because Brittany had flashed that damn adorable smile of hers that makes Santana feel all gooey inside like marshmallows melting over a bonfire at summer camp, she'd said 'yes' when Brittany had asked if she wanted to help.

It's not likes she's _whipped_, or anything. She's just a damn good girlfriend that's totally supportive of all of Brittany's ambitions…even if they involve waking up before dawn to bring a cat to what Santana can only guess is a beauty pageant with hairballs.

And it's not like Santana hates Lord Tubbington, no, she likes him just fine. Hell, she loves that damn cat; she even got him a Christmas gift last year, and it was both freaking adorable and disappointing that he played with the ribbon more than the actual gift.

Yeah, she loves Lord Tubbington.

But, Brittany loves him more, though.

(Brittany loves everyone more than Santana ever could.)

Santana was just never an animal person.

She guesses that makes her a bad lesbian, because, like, aren't most lesbians supposed to be big animal advocates and all vegetarian and shit?

But, whatever. Her parents were goldfish people. Gerbil people. And her goldfish always hitched a ride on the toilet bowl express after about a week of buying them. And the three different times she had gerbils? They each died the second Britts came over to meet them.

It took Santana _months_ to convince Brittany that she wasn't the grim reaper for rodents.

"Now, come on," Brittany says as she gets off the bed and heads for the door, "We got a lot to do before we leave, so let's go get some breakfast." She offers Santana a lop-sided grin that does little to hide her exuberance.

Santana feels herself melt a little inside and smiles back. Slinking out of bed, she follows after the bouncing blonde girl down the stairs and toward the kitchen.

Okay, fine— so she's _totally_ whipped.

But who gives a shit that she's totally fucking whipped when her girlfriend's got the cutest smile on the whole fucking planet?

* * *

So, once they were both showered and dressed and had some breakfast, it was time to find Lord Tubbington. Apparently, the cat needed a manicure and pedicure if he expected to be allowed to enter the cat show.

Santana so does not look forward to trimming his claws. She had been on the receiving end of those little daggers enough times to know it wasn't pleasant. Not to mention that Lord Tubbington likes getting his claws trimmed as much as she likes getting up early.

The fact that the cat is nowhere to be seen does little to calm Santana's nerves.

That cat is smarter than she gives him credit for, Santana decides, because he chooses _now _to disappear instead of, say, her and Britt's date nights.

"Come on, Britt," Santana whines as she watches her girlfriend peering under the living room sofa for the MIA feline. "Where's that bastard cat of yours?"

"Lord Tubbington isn't a bastard," replies Brittany matter-of-factly, standing up—there's no sign of the fat cat, "He's the lovechild of my aunt's cat and her neighbor's cat." She brushes an invisible speck off her jeans. "Maybe he's hiding in the laundry basket again." She quickly rushes toward the basement door and descends the stairs.

With a sigh, Santana follows with less haste and finds her girlfriend crouching on the tile floor of the laundry room pulling a brown tabby out of a pile of dirty clothes.

"There you are, Tubby," coos Brittany in a motherly tone. "I was worried you got out again." She gingerly lifts him and cradles him in her arms with such care that Santana can easily imagine that she's carrying a newborn baby instead of a middle-aged cat.

(The idea of Brittany holding a baby makes Santana's heart flutter for reasons she doesn't want to get into this early in the morning.)

Brittany then sets Lord Tubbington on the floor and places him between her legs, pinning him down. She fixes Santana with her piercing blue gaze.

"Okay, San, I'll hold him, and you clip him?" she proposes, pointing to the special cat claw trimmers on the washing machine.

Santana nods silently, grabs the metal clippers into her left hand, and kneels in front of the feline. Suddenly, as she stares eye-to-eye with Lord Tubbington's unamused face, she finds herself getting stage fright.

"How d'you do this again?" she asks.

"Press on the pad under the toe to make his claw come out and clip," Brittany explains, "Just make sure not to hit the quick; that's that pink vein in his claw."

Following Britt's instruction, Santana grabs his left paw and clips Lord Tubbington's first claw.

It's all downhill from there.

The cat begins wiggling and squirming now that he knows what Santana's up to. His forelegs are everywhere at once and Santana feels like she's battling a giant squid or octopus instead of her girl's cat. She desperately lunges for his left paw again, but misses because of his violent writhing. Above Lord Tubbington, Brittany looks like she's riding a mad bull in a rodeo—all she really needed was a cowboy hat and the image would be complete.

Somehow, however, Santana manages to control the flailing feline's legs enough to finish his front paws. Brittany then deftly spins Lord Tubbington around so that his hindquarters now face Santana.

"Now it's time for your back feet, Tubbs," Brittany tells him.

Santana stares a moment, watching as the cat's back legs kick and scramble, claws extended, and wonders the best way to approach this. A throaty growl rumbles from the normally good-natured cat.

Santana just _knows_ she's gonna get sliced by one of those bad boys she supposed to cut.

And she was so totally right—because as she was reaching for his right foot, Lord Tubbington kicked, and three of the four claws hit her wrist.

"_Mierda!" _she curses, rubbing her injured wrist. "Oh, that's it—it's so on, motherfucker!"

She assaults his remaining claws with a speed and precision that could be described as other-worldly. Lord Tubbington screeches and spits defiance, but Santana continues her hold on his feet. It takes all her strength to hold his paws steady enough, but she manages.

Suddenly, all of those intense Cheerios practices seem like a walk in the freaking park compared to this.

Brittany releases him when they're finished. Lord Tubbington runs in places on the tile floor for a second before charging up the stairs as nothing more than a brown blur.

Santana returns to rubbing her stinging wrist. "That son of a bitch cut me," she complains.

"Here, let me see," says Brittany in that motherly tone again, making Santana feel more like a toddler that skinned its knee.

But, Santana offers her girlfriend her hand nonetheless. Brittany studies the wound. Three long, pink lines streak the sensitive skin on her wrist.

Chuckling lightly, Brittany gives Santana the diagnosis. "You're not even bleeding, you baby," she teases, before lifting Santana's wrist to give each scratch a kiss. "There," she says, "How does it feel now?"

"Better," she smiles, because it so does totally feel better.

Santana doesn't even care that she's probably wearing the world's dorkiest grin right now because she had the best girlfriend anyone could ask for.

* * *

For the next several minutes, she and Brittany scramble to make sure they had packed everything Lord Tubbington would need since they wouldn't be here until Sunday evening; they'd be staying in a one-bed hotel room tonight, just the two of them if you don't count the furry companion.

The shamelessly horny teenager in her approves.

"Okay, I got his food and water," Brittany says as she slings the tote bag, filled with feline paraphernalia, over her shoulder. "Did you get the bag of litter?"

The way she says it, Santana feels that she may as well be asking if Santana remembered to bring the diapers.

(Santana feels her heart jump at that and tucks the thought away; it's still too early to think like that.)

She shakes her head. "Yeah, yeah—it's in the trunk with our bags and that tiny litter box," she replies quickly as Brittany hastens out to the car to add that other bag with the others. She hopes her voice didn't crack as much as she thought.

Santana still wonders if Lord Tubbington would be able to fit his fat ass in that litter tray. The last thing she wants to do today—aside from getting up before the sun—is clean up cat shit.

* * *

The only thing they need to do before they leave is get Lord Tubbington into his carrier.

Santana hopes a half hour is enough time to accomplish that.

She can hear him caterwauling all the way from the living room downstairs as Brittany carries the cat out of her room. Santana guesses he was sulking under Brittany's bed after the claw-clipping incident. She takes a moment to appreciate the way Brittany's arm muscles flex as they struggle to control the writhing feline. But when Lord Tubbington lets out another long, low bellow, Santana snaps back her attention to their mission.

Someone is not a happy camper, obviously.

Santana quickly opens the carrier's wire door and holds the crate down. The sound of the squeaking click of the door, however, causes Lord Tubbington to freak out even more. His wriggling and flailing become worse and more violent, and Brittany has to use more strength than Santana knew she possessed to keep the cat from flinging himself out of her clutches.

Santana is suddenly grateful that they had trimmed his claws because her girlfriend would've been totally shredded and mangled by now.

"_Shh_, it's okay, buddy," Brittany attempts to soothe the panicking animal, "You're not going to the vet, I promise."

(The thought of Brittany sounds like a mother comforting a fussing infant pops into her mind.)

Santana grips the wire door even tighter so that her knuckles turn ghostly white.

"Okay, in you go, Tubby," says Brittany as she lowers Lord Tubbington and begins to scoot him into the carrier.

But, Lord Tubbington must be part rubber band because he stretches himself so he can't fit inside.

Santana holds the carrier still as Brittany pushes on the cat's rump to push him inside the cage. But for all of Britt's efforts, Lord Tubbington refuses to budge. Slowly, Brittany pulls the tabby away from the carrier, cuddles him and gives his head a kiss, before trying again.

It doesn't work, because Elasti-Cat strikes again. This time, all four feet grip the rim of the carrier and refuse to be moved. Brittany presses into his back in a desperate attempt to shove him inside. But not even Brittany's strength can get the feline in.

Another long, low note escapes the cat. Santana thinks it sounds distinctly like _"Nooooooooooooooooo!"_

"You can do it, Lord Tubbington," Brittany encourages, "It's not that bad, really."

"We're going somewhere nice," Santana offers, "with lots of _food_…"

Unfortunately, not even the offer of food—the one word Santana _knows_ he knows—can get him to relent.

Lord Tubbington hisses in protest.

Brittany shoves him harder, but the cat doesn't budge. He responds with an angry wail that fills the entire Pierce house.

"Jeez, it sounds like we're murdering him," comments Santana.

Brittany stops her pushing. Wrapping her arms around the cat's rotund belly, she pulls him away from the carrier again and holds him securely as he tries to escape her grip.

"Let's try something else," she says, breathing hard, as the cat squirms in an attempt to climb onto her shoulder. "Turn the carrier so it's up-and-down."

Santana obeys and flips the plastic crate vertically so that the opening faces the ceiling instead of Brittany.

"Like this?" she asks.

Brittany nods and stands up, Lord Tubbington still held in her tight embrace. Then, she carefully lowers the growling creature into the carrier. Santana quickly slams the wire door shut and locks it.

He was in.

_Thank God._

"Good thinking, Britt," praises Santana, pleased that it only took twenty-six minutes to get the tabby in his crate.

Brittany nods her thanks and smiles weakly, "Yeah, well, I saw the vet use that trick once."

Lord Tubbington hisses his rebellion again.

Perhaps he also knows the word _vet_.

Santana grabs the carrier's handle and heads outside with Brittany. Her girlfriend shuts the door quietly behind them so it won't wake the rest of the Pierces who were lucky enough to sleep in.

Though _how_ they managed to sleep through all of the racket they and Lord Tubbington had made is beyond Santana's comprehension.

Outside is still pretty dark; the stars are gone for the night but the sun has yet to rise and Santana guesses the sun doesn't appear before noon on Saturdays.

She places the Lord Tubbington-filled cat carrier on the backseat of the car before taking to the driver's seat. Brittany slides into the passenger seat then and smiles back at the trapped tabby who glares back at his owner.

Santana briefly wonders if animals can pick up their human's traits because she's sure that she's totally used that very same glare on Berry.

"Don't worry, Lord Tubbington," Brittany assures the cat, "It's won't be long now."

Santana slams the key into the ignition and the engine growls into life. Lord Tubbington echoes the growling car with his own guttural snarl.

She hopes that Brittany is right about this not taking long, because she has her doubts.

* * *

It's only fifteen minutes into their two-hour drive, and Santana already wants to scream. She'd probably bang her head on the steering wheel right now if it wouldn't knock her out and cause them to swerve off the road and into a ditch and hit a tree—killing both her and Brittany and Lord Tubbington in a massive engine fire.

But, on the bright side, it'd shut that damned cat up.

Lord Tubbington had been wailing ever since they started driving.

Nonstop.

Santana had never felt the urge to kill rise within in her so bad before—and she had to deal with Berry on an almost daily basis.

It's not a good sign when she'd rather Rachel fucking Berry be trapped in that cage than that fat-assed cat.

Brittany seems to be handling it well, though. Five minutes into the trip, she'd turned on the radio.

"Lord Tubbington might like the music," she had claimed.

But the pulsating beats of the top forties couldn't drown out the cries of a caged cat. It only serves to make her head pound in the same rhythm of the music. Santana didn't even know her brain could have cramps—but whatdya know?—here it is, cramping as if it were being squeezed like a ripe melon.

"Maybe he doesn't like Lady Gaga?" Brittany wonders, glancing at the backseat.

If Santana's head weren't _this_ close to exploding, she probably would've laughed and said that anyone who wore a dress made of friggin' _meat_ is a friend of Lord Tubbington's. But, with the agony her head is in, all she really wants to do is crawl into some deep, dark cave and live the rest of her days as a troll.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses Brittany frowning as she leans forward to change radio stations. She fiddles a few moments, tongue stuck out in concentration, before settling on an oldies station. She grins when "Dancing Queen" starts playing.

"Oh good, Lord Tubbington loves Abba," says Brittany.

Lord Tubbington seems to think otherwise; he lets out a shriek that would make even Barry Gibb jealous.

He sounded how Santana's head felt.

They're halfway through the song, and Lord Tubbington hasn't shut up. Howl after howl rips from him, and occasionally, he caterwauls. You know, to change things up a bit.

"If he likes Abba so much, why doesn't he _shut the fuck up_?" she cries.

Brittany simply smiles, "He's singing, San."

Lord Tubbington yowls again, sounding distinctly to Santana like _"Heeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllp!"_

"Then tell your son he's a terrible singer," she quips.

It's not until the words leave her mouth that she realizes her slip. She hopes that her skin is dark enough to cover the blush that's quickly spreading over her cheeks.

But, Brittany just shoots her that oh-so-subtle smirk of hers. "Oh, so now he's _my_ son just because he didn't get your voice?" she says.

Despite how shitty her head makes her feel, Santana still feels herself growing warm and fuzzy inside, like she swallowed a kitten or something—and damn, that's corny. But, whatever, it's the truth.

Mimicking Brittany's tone, Santana nods firmly and readjusts her hands on the steering wheel. "Damn straight. No child o' mine will sing like _that_ under my guidance." She means it too. "My kids had _better_ sing awesome—my ears are too fragile for anything less."

(She still feels like it's too bold to assume Brittany would be the mother of her children, despite what her gut keeps insisting.)

Brittany sniggers. "You're such a baby," she teases. "And I'm sure _our_ kids will be crazy talented—I mean, look who their parents are."

Santana's pretty sure her blush is quite visible now.

Lord Tubbington stops his crying finally. Now, scratching replaces the pitiful howls and moans.

Brittany looks back at the cat carrier and laughs. "Trying to dig your way out?" she questions the cat.

"Good luck, Tubbs," Santana tells him seriously, "Just don't mess up your manicure or I will go _all_ Lima Heights on your furry ass."

"Santana!" Britt mockingly scolds her, "You will _not_ go all Lima Heights on our son!"

The sound of claws scraping against plastic comes from the backseat, followed by a miserable meow. Santana sighs, feeling a wave of pity for the cat.

"Fine," she relents, "Just make sure he doesn't hurt himself: that wire on the door can be sharp."

Lord Tubbington grunts after another few minutes of digging, apparently giving up the hope of escape, and Santana thinks she hears him shifting to lie down. Brittany glances back at the carrier.

"Looks like he's sleeping now," her girlfriend grins, her voice hushed.

_Hallelujah_.

Brittany smirks, "Keep your voice down, San, or you'll wake the baby."

(Santana decides to embrace how incredibly…_right_ that sounds coming from Brittany.)

* * *

They're in Columbus now. Santana turns them onto West Broad Street. The sun's fully up now, making Santana feel a bit better. Her head still aches, but since Lord Tubbington stopped his yelling, the pain had toned down.

A few minutes later, they pull up to the Franklin County Veteran's Memorial Hall. Brittany quietly and gingerly takes up Lord Tubbington's carrier, careful not to wake the cage's occupant. Santana grabs the rest of the cat's accessories they would need and trails after her.

Inside the building, a sign welcoming the Mid-Ohio Cat Fanciers Club directs them to the correct room where the show would be held.

Brittany passes the cat carrier to Santana. "Here, take Lord Tubbington while I check us in," she instructs.

She skips over to the check-in table then, and speaks to an elderly woman sitting behind the table. Santana waits patiently, but under the weight of the bag of cat supplies and the twenty-five pound tabby himself, she feels her arms shaking with effort and hopes Brittany finishes soon. The woman offers Brittany a small bag of kitty litter, a couple of folding chairs, and what looks like a book or something.

Her girlfriend trots back to Santana and, telling her to follow, leads her further in the large room where several rows of long tables were lined up perpendicular to the far wall. On each table were cages and cages, each holding a cat or two. Each cage is decorated with curtains that cover up three sides of the cage. Some cages seem to be miniature shrines to their feline occupants, while others look like someone just draped their bath towel over it.

There were cats of all shapes and sizes and colors inside the cages. Santana is surprised to see some cats even larger than Lord Tubbington. She recognizes a few breeds that Brittany had taught her, but others were a complete mystery. The sound of meows and hisses mixes with the chatter of people and fills the spacious area and echo in the show hall.

Santana finds Brittany at the other end of the room and hurries to catch up. The increased speed joggles Lord Tubbington awake. The tabby wails, cranky from being woken from his nap. He begins to shift and turn in the carrier as he lets out a few raspy meows. Santana grips the handle harder as the crate wobbles in her grasp.

She finds Brittany at the end of the last table closest to the wall. Santana gratefully sets down Lord Tubbington and all his supplies on the table. She pauses to watch what her girlfriend was doing. Brittany's currently pinning up her favorite bed sheets—the lavender ones with the unicorns on it—over a large wire cage.

Brittany seems to sense her eyes on her. "It's so he can't see the other cats," she explains, "Even cats like their privacy, especially in the benching area."

Santana nods and leans against the table, her eyes still gliding over all the cages and cats and people with curiosity. Santana recognizes some of this from all the times she and Britt had watched that Animal Planet show about that guy who likes to sing about cats.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Brittany continue setting up Lord Tubbington's cage. Inside, Britt had placed his bed, that tiny litter box that Santana doubts he'll fit, his food and water, and a few of Lord Tubbington's favorite toys.

It's pretty dope actually. She wouldn't mind staying in that cage…like, if she were a cat.

Once she finishes with the setup, Brittany shifts Lord Tubbington out of his carrier into the large cage. He hisses once and howls twice, before settling to sniff everything Britt has put in there for him.

"Like it, Tubbs?" asks Brittany.

He answers with a growl and begins to dig at the wire edge. With a frustrated grunt, the cat stalks into his soft, doughnut-shaped bed and curls up with a huff. He shoots Brittany and Santana a glare before closing his eyes to resume his nap.

Brittany chuckles in amusement as she takes a seat in one of their folding chairs. "I guess it's good enough."

"It looks awesome, Britt," assures Santana, taking the other chair. "He's just pissed he had to wake up."

"He gets that from you, you know," deadpans Brittany.

(Santana decides the reason her stomach is flipping is that it's finally awake enough to digest that bagel she had for breakfast.)

Brittany crosses her legs and opens up the book the old lady had given her and starts reading. She grabs a purple crayon from her purse and begins circling things in it, her brows furrow in concentration.

Santana watches her silently for a minute or two, before scooting her chair closer to see what her girlfriend is doing.

"This is the show catalogue," Brittany says, not looking up from the book.

"Are you, like, circling things you or Lord Tubbington would like for Christmas?" queries Santana slowly.

Brittany laughs, and Santana wonders if it was a silly question. Like, maybe it's supposed to be obvious? But she knows next to nothing about this whole cat show thing, and she's rather curious, and Britt's, like, a cat expert.

"No, no it's not that kind of catalogue," explains Brittany. "And stop fishing for ideas for Christmas presents. You've got, like, eight months to plan. I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Then, what _are_ you doing?"

Brittany uses her crayon to point to a column of small paragraphs printed on a page. "See that there?" she asks Santana, "This lists important info on all the cats entered in the show." She points to a circled block of text. "This is Lord Tubbington's info. See that? That's his entry number—219." Brittany lifts the back of her left hand to show Santana. "I wrote it on my hand so I won't forget it."

"Okay," Santana nods, listening closely. "I assume it's important, then?"

Brittany flips to the last page of the catalogue. "Yeah. This is the judging schedule so you know what time your class will be judged. I circled all the HHP—that's household pet—times and ring numbers."

"So we'll know when and where Tubbs here will be judged," Santana smiles, understanding, "That's super smart."

Brittany blushes—she always does when Santana compliments her intelligence, but Santana always feels ridiculously proud of herself for making Britt blush.

"Lord Tubbington's first show isn't for a couple of hours," Brittany says finally. "I'm gonna go get us some coffee. I'll be right back, okay?" She then stands up, leaving Santana to watch the baby.

It only takes two and a half minutes after Brittany's departure before Santana's asleep, her head on the table, leaning against Lord Tubbington's cage.

* * *

It's noon when Brittany wakes her. Santana straightens her spine stiffly, groaning, and stretches her arms. Metal folding chairs were not adequate sleeping arrangements.

"Good morning," she hears Brittany chirp. She hands the styrofoam cup she was holding to Santana. "I got you coffee."

Taking a sip of the drink, Santana can't help but feel betrayed by the liquid. "It's cold," she whines.

"It was hot when I got it," Brittany snickers. "Just pretend it's an iced coffee and it won't be so bad."

She pouts and stares at the cup in her hand. "It's not the same," she grieves.

Britt rolls her eyes at her and changes the subject. "Feel better now that you got in a _catnap?_"

Santana giggles despite her cold coffee, "Gah, Britt, that's such a terrible pun, you know."

Brittany smiles, an impish glint in her azure eyes. "Well, it's one of the cleaner jokes I could make here."

Santana sniggers again, because, like, a million different lesbian jokes are popping into her mind now.

Brittany gestures to a pair of Siamese cats across from them. One cat was grooming the other's head and, even over the noise, Santana could hear their content purring. Her girlfriend leans in closer, grinning conspiratorially, and whispers, "That cat likes licking pussy as much as you do."

Santana probably laughs louder than she should, because they're dozens of people staring at her and she guesses she sounds like some kind of psycho right now.

"Ohmygod, Britt, that is _so_ bad!" Santana says breathlessly after she gets her laughter under control.

* * *

It's one o'clock now, and Santana is holding Lord Tubbington down on their table while Brittany does some last-minute brushing.

Over the PA, they hear Lord Tubbington's entry number called to the show ring along with the other housecats.

Brittany scoops up the large tabby and carries him toward the designated ring, which turns out to be more of a square with three tables lined with cages as the sides and another table in the middle for the judge to use to evaluate the cats.

As Brittany slides Lord Tubbington into the cage labeled with his number, she gives him a small pep talk. "Be nice to the judge, okay? Don't be scared—you're gonna be great. I believe in you, Lord Tubbington." She shuts the cage door. "Win or lose, you'll still be the best cat I know."

And damn, that's so cheesy and so sweet and just so _Brittany_ that Santana feels that involuntary smile growing on her face.

Brittany then runs to sit next to Santana in the front row of the audience. Santana's surprised by the number of people who showed up to watch the competition; every seat is filled and there are people standing around the edges and behind the few rows of folding chairs.

"Are any of them yours?" asks the elderly woman beside Santana.

Brittany answers before the question registers in Santana's mind. "Yeah!" Brittany grins enthusiastically and points to Lord Tubbington, who sits with his shoulders hunched, looking more like a brown blob than a cat. "That's him."

"Oh, he's a bigger one, isn't he?" comments the woman with a friendly smile.

_That's an understatement_, thinks Santana.

Brittany punches her shoulder and Santana guesses she said that aloud.

_Ouch._

She rubs her smarting shoulder and gives her girlfriend a withering look.

"Be nice to Lord Tubbington," Britt scolds. "What if he heard you? He's nervous as it is."

The woman gives Santana a sympathetic smile. "Not a cat person?"

Brittany answers for her again. "_Psh_, Santana _loooooves_ Lord Tubbington!" Her excited grin is back in full force as she continues, "He's like our _baby_." Britt's enthusiasm gushes out of her like a burst dam. "It's his first show too!" she adds with all the pride of a parent who's kid is the star of some shitty school play.

(Santana doesn't want to admit it, but she can feel her own pride exploding inside her chest like a bag of popcorn in a microwave.)

Still smiling, the woman points to a lanky black-and-white cat in a cage near Lord Tubbington. "Our Penny is the same for me and my husband. It's her third show—she got a ribbon last time."

The judge then enters the ring, ending their proud-parent conversation. The judge is a middle-aged woman with spiky, short brown hair and is wearing some dotted dress that looks like one of those tests that see if you're colorblind.

Briefly, Santana wonders if everyone at cat shows were middle-aged and older women.

The judge takes each cat out one at a time in order, taking roughly two minutes per cat to swing it around, look at it, and play with it. She explains what she's doing in each step—checking for expression and playfulness and health and whatever. Apparently, unlike with the purebred cats, there was no breed standard, or blueprint for the perfect cat as the judge had said, for household pets since they were basically the mutts of the feline world. So, now Santana has no clue how she's picking out the winners.

When it's Lord Tubbington's turn, the judge scoops him out of his cage and swings him the air like she did with the others. He squirms and wriggles, looking like he's trying to swim away in midair like some overweight trout.

The judge chuckles, looking into his light green eyes, "Somebody's a bit hefty. Time to hit the salad bar, buddy?"

Santana swears that cat must know English because he shoots the woman a deadly glare and swishes his tail in irritation.

(Santana feels that motherly pride welling up in her again at the sight of that glare and can't stop herself from smirking as the cat growls—she's sure it's some sort of catty comeback.)

Brittany's breath tickles her ear. "He totally got that from you," she whispers. "You're a bad influence on him, San."

Santana covers her mouth to quiet her amusement.

Lord Tubbington is then set on the exam table and the tabby seems to relax a bit. He sits down, tail swishing, and he seems to melt into the table as he lies down. The judge picks him up again and resets him on the table, trying to get him to stand up. But he oozes between her fingers like melting ice cream and lies back down. The judge tries once more to get him to stand for her, but Lord Tubbington is now, actually, part gelatin and slumps back down into a blob of fur and fat.

Giving up, the judge strokes his back, his butt rising with her hand as she does. The woman grabs a feather and tries to entice him into playing with her. However, Lord Tubbington appears unimpressed by her efforts and turns his head away from the irritating toy to shoot a glare at Brittany.

Finished, the judge scoops the cat up again and slides him back into the cage. The last cat is up then: Penny. The little cat is calm and poised in the judge's arms and plays delightedly with the woman as though they were old friends reunited. Penny is then easily put back in her cage.

Lord Tubbington's paw slips out from between the wire bars to swipe at the judge's dress.

Penny wins, of course. Santana can't help but feel disappointed Lord Tubbington didn't even place. Sure, he was a mud puddle with fur, but he was _their_ mud puddle with fur.

(There's a part of her that wants to march up there and argue the results with the judge, but she stops herself because she _so_ does not want to become one of the mothers from _Toddlers and Tiaras_.)

Luckily, Brittany was never a sore loser and smiles to the woman beside them. "Congrats," Britt says honestly. "Penny's really cute."

Santana nods and offers her congratulations to the couple next to them—she might be a sore loser, but she's not going to be rude.

After the good sportsmanship crap was finished, Brittany collects Lord Tubbington and brings him back to his cage in the benching area, where he promptly slinks into his bed and sighs.

"So, is that it then?" questions Santana as they each take a seat on a folding chair.

Brittany shakes her head, "Nope, he's still got two more chances." She pulls out the show catalogue again and points to the judging schedule. "There's two more housecat shows, one today and one tomorrow."

Nodding, Santana remarks, "Okay, so now what do we do?"

Looking around them, Brittany grins mischievously, "We could do a little shopping." She nods her head toward all the various vendors that line the perimeter of the show hall selling all sorts of cat-related stuff.

Santana mirrors Brittany's smirk because shopping is totally fun—especially now that she's got her very own credit card.

* * *

So, Lord Tubbington doesn't place again in the second show and Santana finds herself strangely disappointed as they pack up for the evening.

Lord Tubbington is last to be loaded into the backseat of the car as they head toward their hotel. Santana eases the car out of the parking lot, careful not to disturb the sleeping tabby and have a reappearance of Lord "Karaoke" Tubbington.

"So how do I get to the hotel?" asks Santana, keeping her voice hushed.

Brittany reads the printed directions to her slowly and Santana obeys. "Okay, now turn onto Gay Street," she concludes.

Santana snickers, "Gay Street? Really, Britt?"

Brittany nods and, sure enough, Santana turns onto Gay Street and sees their hotel.

"It felt appropriate," her girlfriend shrugs with a sly smile.

They pull into the hotel's parking lot and Brittany delicately takes up Lord Tubbington's carrier and they head inside the tall building. Inside, the lobby is actually really swanky and Santana can't help but feel like a true adult for checking her and Britt in when the man behind the shiny black front desk hands her the keycard to their room.

Sure, it's not like she's never stayed at a hotel without her parents before. At Nationals last year, she had been in a whole other state without her parents, let alone a hotel. But she had shared a crowded room with all the other girls in glee club.

This time, it was just her and Britt…

(_Me gusta_.)

Lord Tubbington shifts in his carrier and makes an odd half-grunt-half-meow noise.

Okay, fine, so it'll just be her, Britts, _and_ Lord Tubbington.

What could go wrong?

* * *

Okay, so maybe something could go wrong.

Lord Tubbington had almost gotten out of their room when Santana was paying the pizza delivery boy. But luckily, Brittany had swooped in just in time like a superhero and grabbed the fleeing feline just as he was halfway out the door.

Currently, Lord Tubbington's rolling on the bed with the new toy—a little plush catnip-scented mushroom—Britt had bought for him.

Santana wonders just how many drug references Brittany will be able to make with that new toy.

"Look, San, Lord Tubbington's trippin' on 'shrooms, man," says Brittany in her best drugged voice.

Santana laughs; that's one.

"Oh, Britt, you're such an enabler," she teases as she disposes of the empty greasy pizza box.

"Well, I tried to make him go to rehab, but he said 'no, no, no,'" Britt sing-songs.

That's two.

* * *

After having some fun with the pay-per-view, they decide to settle in for the night. Lord Tubbington is sprawled on the floor, dead body style, with his eyes wide open yet, actually, out cold from his new toy, leading Britt to make her third and fourth drug-addicted-cat references of the night: "He's _sooooo_ high, San. I bet we're nothing but psychedelic, rainbow-colored blobs to him right now. I wonder how long it'll be before he wants to watch _The Wizard of Oz_ with the sound off?"

Presently, Santana lies in their bed, trying to get the pillow to conform to her head, when Brittany bounds out of the bathroom and jumps onto the bed and onto Santana. Before she can even realize what's happening, Brittany's pressing her lips to hers.

Breaking off the kiss too soon, Brittany grins impishly. "Wanna play a game?"

Something about the hungry look in her girlfriend's eyes tells Santana it's not _Mario Kart_—or even strip _Mario Kart—_that she wants to play.

"It's called 'Honeymoon Suite,'" continues Brittany.

Santana's eyes dart to the semi-conscious cat still lying on the floor. He probably isn't even lucid right now anyway. "Okay," she quickly consents.

Brittany's blue eyes darken from their normal winter-sky blue to a blue that resembles the sky at that time of night when moon has set but the sun has yet to rise. What was that time called anyway…twilight or dawn, maybe? The smile Britt gives her as she clicks off the light is enough to send a shiver down Santana's spine.

What was she thinking about again?

It's roughly five seconds before the little pecks turn into a heated make out session and it's roughly ten seconds before their tongues find each other and begin their dance. Brittany's hand slides up beneath her pajama top.

_Bang! Bang! Rattle! Bang!_

Startled, they pull apart instantly and Santana swears she just vomited her heart. Squinting in the dimness, she sees Lord Tubbington at the door to their room. He stretches up on his hind legs and thumps on the door with his front paws.

"No, Lord Tubbington!" scolds Brittany, "Get down!"

The cat obeys and sits down and eyes them forlornly, his eyes flashing neon green in the darkness. Brittany holds his stare until he looks away before returning her attention to Santana.

"Now, where were we?" she asks before slipping her hand back up Santana's top.

"_Meoooooooooooooooooooow!" _

Sighing in frustration, Brittany glares at the tabby. "Be quiet, Lord Tubbington!" she commands.

He doesn't listen this time and lets out another baleful howl.

"Shut up, Kat Kong!" Santana orders.

Lord Tubbington stands on his back legs again and pounds on the door harder and wails loudly.

"_Hush!"_ Brittany barks with a surprising amount of authority.

He sits down again, wrapping his tail around his paws, and pouts at them. They watch him for several minutes, just waiting for him to start his pleas for escape to renew. When he stays quiet, Brittany rejoins her lips with Santana's. Santana can feel her body begin to buzz again and combs her fingers through her girlfriend's golden locks. She lets out a soft moan when Brittany's tongue slides against her own.

_BANG!_

Santana deepens their kiss, trying to ignore the annoying animal, as Lord Tubbington does his best impression of an ambulance siren. Brittany flinches at the sound but Santana grips her nightshirt to keep her girlfriend in place. Without breaking her connection with Brittany, Santana flings an extra pillow at the feline. Satisfaction creeps over her when she hears the tabby scurry and hide behind one of the modern-looking chairs.

It's silent for several minutes with only the sound of the sheets rustling and soft moans interrupting occasionally. Lord Tubbington must sense the romance of the moment because he takes it upon himself to serenade them—he caterwauls and howls and meows, battering their door and scratching at the doorframe.

"Just ignore him and he'll be quiet," murmurs Brittany while sucking on Santana's pulse point.

Britt is in the process of removing Santana's top when the phone on the bedside table rings. Her girlfriend clumsily reaches over and answers it, a frown forming on face as she hangs up.

"That was the front desk," Brittany says, "Well, it was a _guy_ who works at the front desk not the _actual_ desk—but he said we need to quiet down. I guess they're getting complaints about the noise."

Santana runs a hand through her hair, groaning.

Lord Tubbington howls again—and it's the longest note Santana's ever heard.

"Is he part wolf, by any chance?" mutters Santana as Brittany goes over to the door and, scooping up the tabby, sets him on the bed with them.

Brittany pets him and scratches his head. "You've got to be quiet now, Tubbs," she tells the cat seriously. "It's bedtime."

Santana sighs and settles back in the bed, "Why don't we just get to sleep, Britt?"

Her girlfriend nods, still stroking Lord Tubbington's back as he purrs. "Ni-ni, San," she yawns and cuddles up beside her.

"Night-night, Britt-Britt."

* * *

Santana awakes to the sound of a yowling cat about an hour later. Beside her, Brittany grumbles indistinctly into her pillow before slowly slinking out of bed and fetching Lord Tubbington away from the door.

"Can't leave, Tubby," mumbles Britt as she pets the cat, doing her best to comfort him. "Just go to sleep."

As soon as Brittany drifts back to sleep and her hand stops stroking him, Lord Tubbington hops off the bed and bats at the door.

"_Reooooooooooow!_" calls the tabby.

"You're turn," sleepily says Brittany, more to the pillow than to Santana.

With a grunt, Santana reluctantly leaves the warmth of the blankets and grabs Lord Tubbington. He squirms in her grasp, but she holds him firmly. She then sits on the bed, setting the cat on her lap, and strokes him slowly and scratches him between the shoulders like he likes.

She's not sure how long she sits up with the grumpy _gato_, but his purr is soothing in a way and she's soon dozing. Lord Tubbington wiggles underneath her still-petting hand and jumps off the bed again.

She cringes when another raucous caterwaul dispels the silence. Brittany stirs and holds out a hand toward Santana.

"Tag me in," she says groggily.

Santana slaps the offered hand lightly and Britt gets up and picks up the tabby. She cradles him in her arms and paces around the room with him.

(Santana wonders if this is what it's like to have a newborn in the house.)

She bunches the sheet into her fist and feels herself growing slightly less sleepy.

Lifting up the duvet high, Brittany slips Lord Tubbington underneath the blankets. She slides in herself and, together, she and Santana pin the blankets down so that he's trapped under them.

The cat crawls around the end of the bed and climbs over their legs, searching for escape. He grunts and meows before eventually lying down by their feet. He grooms himself and is soon asleep.

Brittany and Santana share a smile before falling asleep themselves.

She's just drifting off into blissful unconsciousness when she feels the furry bundle by their feet shift and escape the blanket prison. She groans inwardly when she hears Lord Tubbington resume his solo.

Without lifting her head from her pillow or even opening her eyes, Brittany lifts her right fist. "Partners," she states, her voice muffled by sleep and pillow.

"Partners," whispers Santana and bumps her left fist into Britt's and slithers out of bed like melted cheese dripping off a nacho.

Stumbling slightly in the darkness, Santana finds the tabby by the door and grabs him, carrying him into the bathroom, flicking on the light with her shoulder, and shutting the door with her hip. She flips on the fan, which rumbles and groans loudly like a monster from some awful, B-rated horror movie. She sets the cat down on the floor and sits on the edge of the tub and crosses her arms.

"Go ahead, scream," Santana tells the cat roughly. "Just let it all out; no one can hear you in here."

Lord Tubbington stares at her, appearing confused, and grunts and sniffs around the tiled floor.

Santana watches him and feels her frustration and lack of sleep getting to her. She scowls at the cat as he hops into the tub to explore.

"Of course, _now_ you're quiet." She rolls her eyes. "Why do you have to be such a bastard, keeping us awake all night and screaming all during the car ride and scratching my wrist, huh?" she rants. "You're bastard and a fat ass and a _total_ cock-block and you get your hair all over my nice clothes. Not to mention you've been an absolute _disappointment _at the cat show today. You're just a burdensome li'l fucker." She glares at the tabby, but Lord Tubbington his ignoring her insults and drinking from a puddle of water by the drain.

"Strange," Santana muses, "That's how Abuela usually put me to sleep whenever I put up a fuss."

She'd even made sure to use some of the same words her abuela had used.

Maybe insults weren't the same as lullabies with cats?

Lord Tubbington hops out of the tub and brushes against her legs, wrapping his tail around her knee, and looks up at her. His pale green eyes, wide and watery, meet hers. He mews.

"Yeah, I love you too," Santana relents, petting him. She scoops him up and cradles him like Brittany so often does. "But you didn't hear that from me," she adds and carries him back to bed.

* * *

They finally get two hours of undisturbed sleep that night before they have to get up for the second day of cat show bliss. Santana had awoken to find Brittany practically on top of her and, although she wasn't complaining about _that_, she soon saw that it was because Lord Tubbington was taking up three-quarters of the bed, leaving them with very little bed and even less blanket.

Currently, they're at the show again. Brittany's coaxing Lord Tubbington into his benching cage with bits of her Egg McMuffin. It works and Lord Tubbington is in his cage, eagerly gobbling up the scraps Britt offers. Brittany smiles and giggles as he eats like it's the best thing ever.

Santana watches, trying her best not to smile at Brittany's pure delight, but she has a feeling she's failing. She's tired from the lack of sleep and grumpy from getting up early two days in row and her coffee hasn't set in yet and she's really not in the mood to be happy.

But her girlfriend smiles that honeysuckle smile and asks Santana to throw away the wrappers from breakfast and Santana robotically gets up and searches for the nearest trash can. She trips and stumbles over her own feet several times before she completes her task. Santana's pretty sure she looks like some brain-juice-guzzling zombie right now—or maybe like Finn when he tries to dance—but after two days of sleep deprivation she hardly cares that she's probably acting like a grizzly bear that just got shot in the ass with a tranquilizer dart.

"Aw, looks like Daddy's still tired," Brittany playfully teases as Santana rejoins them.

Draping her arms around Santana's shoulders, Brittany places a light kiss to Santana's cheek. The gentle peck is enough to set Santana's sluggish mind to begin to work.

"Wait, did you just call me 'Daddy'?" she inquires.

Her girlfriend's eyes twinkle with mischief. "So you _are_ awake."

Santana frowns, not wanting to be teased and definitely not wanting to find the way Britt's eyes are sparking with amusement charming. She's exhausted and really just wants be angry, wants to find Brittany's comment offensive. But it's a mammoth task.

"So, I'm the dad now?" she sneers, clinging to grouchiness that refuses to leave.

Brittany smirks, apparently deciding to ignore the bite behind Santana's words. "Well, I carried him so, technically, doesn't that make me the mom?"

"Wait, what?" Santana's confused now and wills the caffeine in her coffee to kick in soon.

Brittany squeezes Santana's shoulders before taking a seat in her own folding chair. She's wearing that catty smile she gets when she knows she's totally running mental circles around someone.

"Well," she drawls. "I carried Lord Tubbington inside today so that makes me the mom. Yesterday, you carried him inside, so you were the mom then," she enlightens Santana. "It's my turn to be the mom."

Well damn, Santana didn't know she was a mother.

Britt chuckles at Santana's silence. "Okay, fine, you can be the mom if you really want," she declares with a grin. She stands up, "Okay, hot mama, I'm gonna go get us some mini doughnuts. You watch Lord Tubbington."

Santana finally allows herself to smile and Brittany bounces off toward the concession stand. Her smile grows with Brittany's every skip.

(She kind of likes how _hot mama_ sounds coming from Brittany.)

It's the one thing Santana can't decide if she loves or hates about Brittany: the way that that girl could kill a perfectly good bad mood. It's impossible to be angry around Brittany when she's prancing around and smiling like she's freaking sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day.

Lord Tubbington meows in his cage and Santana reaches a couple fingers through the metal bars to scratch his head. He purrs and rubs his cheek against her knuckles.

Santana smiles at him and continues petting him. "You're a good boy," she tells him, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry for yelling at you last night," she apologizes. "I guess you were just scared and homesick, huh?"

He purrs louder and licks the back of her hand and Santana guesses that all is forgiven.

Her mind is too tired to block out the thoughts of family and starting a family with Brittany that she lets herself savor how good "Pierce-Lopez" tastes on her tongue. It's something like french fries dipped in chocolate milkshake, all salty and sweet but oh-so good together.

Now Santana really wishes Britt would come back with those doughnuts already.

"So, d'you think I'd make a good mother?" she asks the cat.

Lord Tubbington stares at her and flicks his ear.

She thinks back to all the things she had called him last night in that bathroom and frowns. Would she have said those things if it had been her child that wouldn't go to sleep when all she wanted was some time alone with Brittany? Would she throw a pillow then too?

She recalls how angry she felt during the car trip to Columbus. What would she be like when she had a migraine and a child being annoying in the backseat?

"I'm an unfit mother," she decides.

(The realization makes her feel sad in a way she's never felt before or ever expected to feel.)

"Hey!" Brittany's perky voice snaps her out of the disappointment in herself she's feeling. "I got the doughnuts," her girlfriend announces, offering them to her, "They're freshly made too—they'd run out and had to make a new batch."

Santana smiles and takes one, enjoying how the sugary pastry practically melts on her tongue.

(The way it's burning her tongue is also an excellent distraction from her thoughts.)

* * *

It's several hours later and Lord Tubbington's next and final show is in a few minutes. Brittany's got him freshly brushed and looking nice so that his dark stripes stand out even more against his brown fur.

Brittany is presently explaining more about cat shows to Santana to kill time.

"So, you see, each ring is a separate cat show," Brittany says, gesturing to the numerous rings that were set up around the large show hall. "That's why some of these cats have so many ribbons on their cages—there's, like, five different chances to win something this weekend."

Santana nods and wonders if Lord Tubbington might win something yet, but she doubts it after the performance he put on yesterday. He had definitely not enjoyed himself.

Brittany stands up suddenly. "I need to go bathroom; I'll be right back. If they call his number, could you take him to his ring, San?"

Santana nods again, "Yeah, sure thing, Britt."

Brittany smiles before jogging off toward the restrooms.

Hardly a minute passes before Lord Tubbington's entry number is called over the PA and there's no sign of Britt. Pushing down the stage-fright she's now experiencing, Santana hoists Lord Tubbington out from his cage and carries him to the show rings.

She passes by another lady carrying two tiny cats in her arms. One of little cats hisses when it sees the large Lord Tubbington near them and reaches out to swat him. Santana feels the tabby jerk in her grip, clearly spooked. He squirms and writhes in her grasp, hissing and clawing his way up her arms and onto her shoulders. Santana's reminded of just how large and heavy Lord Tubbington really is as she desperately clutches at him, but he's slippery and springboards off her back.

She's in such a shock at what just happened that it's not until she hears the words "Cat out!" that does her body feel like her own again.

_Shit, shit, shit!_

Santana reels around, frantically looking for any sign of that fat cat, but she sees nothing. The only thing that really captures her attention is the way all the exit doors are slamming shut and the way all the other owners freeze in their tracks and start squeezing their own cat tighter as if it's about to escape too.

Mentally, she's flailing despite how still she stands. She swallows hard, trying to swallow her panic with it, and takes off in the direction she thinks Lord Tubbington took. She crouches and peers under tables and under the feet of the other people but all she finds is loose fur blowing by like tumbleweeds.

There's no sign of Lord Tubbington.

"Santana?"

She hears Brittany behind her and turns around.

Britt's blue eyes are wide and worried. "Where's Lord Tubbington? You got him to his show, right?" she asks her slowly, her eyes pleading Santana to say that she got him there and he's safe.

Santana tries to explain what happened, but she only sputters, "I—he—there was another cat—and—God, I'm so sorry." She sends Brittany a look to communicate her apologies and fear and self-loathing she's experiencing at this moment.

Her girlfriend appears to understand and, biting her lower lip, says, "We'll find him."

She and Santana anxiously look under every table and chair only to find dust. Brittany even checks through all the cat trees and scratching posts one vendor was selling.

But there's no sign of Lord Tubbington.

Several dreadful minutes tick by without any sign of the cat as they check and recheck every hiding spot the show hall could offer. Britt's close to tears Santana could tell, and Santana is also pretty sure she'll start crying herself the second Brittany does.

All her fears of being an unfit parent resurface in her mind as she continues her hunt for Lord Tubbington. The thought of "I'm a bad parent" cycles in her head like a revolving door and it's making her queasy, but she's too scared to stop and vomit like her stomach wants.

If only Britt had carried Lord Tubbington to that damned ring, this wouldn't have happened. Brittany was good with skittish things like nervous felines and young children.

(Brittany would make such a good mother.)

Santana tells herself that _this_ is why she should never have kids. She couldn't even carry a cat without it escaping and running away. How could she manage a squirmy toddler if she can't even handle a cat?

Santana finds herself back where she started and realizes they've searched the entire show hall. She gazes at the entrance and emergency exits and wonders if Lord Tubbington could've gotten outside.

"Any sign of him, San?" Brittany comes up behind her.

Santana shakes her head and opens her mouth to apologize again when she hears a familiar yowl nearby. Santana searches the area again but doesn't find the fat tabby anywhere until Brittany puts her hand on Santana's shoulder and points up.

"There he is—up there!" Britt cries.

And there he is. Up right underneath the high ceiling, crouched on a metal crossbeam, was Lord Tubbington.

Santana isn't even sure how he got up there.

"Oh, Lord Tubbington, please come down!" calls Brittany, beckoning to the cat.

But the tabby pays no attention to Britt's pleas.

Thinking quickly, Santana grabs a close by folding chair and drags it under the beam. She climbs onto the chair and reaches for the stranded cat. But Lord Tubbington backs away nervously and hops higher onto a rafter of the show hall, leaving Santana to curse under her breath.

Santana squints up at the feline, the florescent lights that run parallel to the rafter makes Lord Tubbington nothing but a black, cat-shaped silhouette. She can hear Brittany crying now and Santana has to bite her lower lip to keep herself from running to comfort her girlfriend.

Instead, she takes in a determined breath and latches onto the beam above her and heaves herself onto it. Cautiously, she begins to climb toward Lord Tubbington. She's suddenly grateful she decided to wear jeans today instead of a skirt. Once she's finally reached the rafter Lord Tubbington is sitting on, she swings one leg over it so that she straddles the beam as though she were riding a horse.

"Santana, be careful!" advises Brittany, shivering with fear. "I don't want you to get hurt!"

Santana nods silently without looking down; she doesn't really trust her voice not to crack and she so totally doesn't want to know just how high up she is. Holding out her hand to grab him, she inches closer to Lord Tubbington. But every time she gets close, he scoots away further away and into the middle of the room.

A crowd has gathered beneath her by now, offering everything from encouragement to advice to pleas to come down. Santana can feel Brittany's eyes tracking her every move as she slithers like a snake on the metal beam and nearer the wayward feline.

"Come on, Tubbs," she coaxes, "Be a good boy."

He stares at her with his ears pinned back and the fur along his back bristling. Santana continues to slowly pull herself toward Lord Tubbington, speaking softly to him as she approaches.

"Come to Auntie Tana."

But the cat backs away again, his fur fluffed up, and in any other situation Santana would've laughed at him and said that he looked like he stuck his tail in an electrical outlet.

"Oh, come on!" Santana whines, frustrated, "You're, like, the laziest piece of fur ever! I've seen you sleep over your food bowl just so you wouldn't have to get up when Brittany feeds you."

She crawls closer to Lord Tubbington, keenly aware of the tension of the crowd beneath her; she was especially conscious of Brittany's intense blue stare. She could practically feel the fear rolling off Brittany in waves.

She takes a deep, steadying breath before reaching for the cat. He tries to get away again, but Santana snatches him up by the scruff of his neck. On sheer instinct, Lord Tubbington instantly goes limp. It's not the proper way to hold a cat, she knows—Britt had taught her that when they first met back when the Pierces only had Charity. However, it works and Santana is able to drag him toward her.

Santana sits up and turns around, but with Lord Tubbington's extra weight and her change in position, she's thrown off balance. She can feel her grip on the metal beam slip and she careens over the Lord Tubbington-weighted side.

Below her, she hears her impromptu audience gasp and Brittany scream.

Frantically, she wraps her legs around the rafter tightly, and hangs upside-down with the tabby still limp in her hands. Blood rushing to her head, she dangles there momentarily, thinking. She shifts Lord Tubbington into her left hand, still being held by the loose skin on his neck, and swings her right hand over the high beam.

All those years of tree climbing are finally paying off.

Santana creeps forward, the cat still swinging by his scruff in midair, and she feels like a sloth inching slowly upside-down along a vine. Only, there's no Kristen Bell around to sob hysterically over her—although, she was pretty sure Brittany was doing a good impression of the actress currently.

She slides closer to her starting point and lets herself drop neatly onto the chair. She weakly slinks off it, readjusting the cat in her arms to hold him more comfortably, just as Brittany races over and squeezes them tight.

Brittany is crying uncontrollably as she says, "I was so scared, San!"

She leans in and kisses Santana, desperate and passionate, her lips wet from tears. And for the first time since the dance at the Sugar Shack, Santana doesn't care that they have an audience, nor does she care that Lord Tubbington is squirming between them in protest from being squashed by their chests. She's just so happy and grateful to be back safely on the ground with Brittany.

Once they break apart, Brittany takes Lord Tubbington. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Santana can feel her arms beginning to ache and her legs turning into jelly.

The crowd disperses now that the excitement is over.

Britt gives Lord Tubbington a kiss before they bring him back to his benching cage, locking him inside swiftly. She then turns and gives Santana another hug. Santana feels like she's melting into Brittany's arms.

"Thank you so much, San," Britt whispers to her. "You didn't have to go up there; we could've called the fire department or something." Her girlfriend's eyes are still watery pools of blue. "They rescue cats from trees all the time."

They're quiet for several minutes or several hours, Santana's not really paying attention: she's purely enjoying the warmth of Brittany's embrace.

"It was really brave of you to go after Lord Tubbington yourself," Brittany says, breaking their tranquility but not their embrace. "I love you so much, Santana. I was afraid I wouldn't get to tell you that again."

Santana feels like she should say it back, that she loves her too. And she wants to, too. But her pessimistic mind is reeling over everything that just happened and just how badly she screwed up that she can't bring herself to reply.

Instead, she cries.

She cries for Lord Tubbington because he could've gotten hurt or worse. She cries for Brittany because she was so scared for both her and the cat. She cries for herself because she realizes she's a bad parent that can't even handle one weekend with a cat without fucking it up. How could she expect to manage children if a cat is too hard for her?

She doesn't deserve to start a family with Brittany.

(Santana had never realized how much she wanted that until now and now it fills her with sadness that she can't because she'd be a terrible mother.)

Brittany holds her tighter and rocks her gently. "_Shh_, it's okay, San," she says trying to calm her. "It's over now." Britt continues to comfort her in that motherly way she's seemed to have acquired sometime when Santana wasn't looking.

However, Santana's self-loathing has latched onto her and she sobs harder.

Santana cries, curling into herself and away from Brittany's comfort. "I'm a bad mother," she laments.

"Santana," Brittany says in that tone that Santana always finds soothing, "You're not a bad mother."

The way Britt says it with that half-smile makes it seem so obvious. A part of Santana already believes her.

(She makes a good argument, after all.)

The other part of her is stubborn and clings to her belief like an old man who refuses to leave his old house when disaster strikes because he "was born in this house and he'll die in this house."

"I _am_ a bad parent," she insists, "I lost Lord Tubbington!" Her tears run harder. "I fucking _lost_ him, Britt! He could've gotten hurt."

Brittany doesn't shun her or scold her like Santana believes she should, she just keeps up that half-smile that's both soothing and encouraging in that subtle Brittany-esque way.

"Yeah, but then you found him," she states as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

"But I still lost him, Britt."

Brittany wraps Santana in her arms and this time Santana doesn't pull away.

"Parents lose their children all the time, but then they find them," Brittany says, "It's scary, yeah, but it happens." She shrugs as if it explains everything and it sort of does because Brittany has some sort of superpower that makes everything seem so simple. "Remember when I was, like, five, and my dad lost me in the mall?"

Santana nods, sniffling.

"And then he found me, like, an hour later in the book store asleep on a beanbag chair?"

Despite herself, Santana giggles, "You told me you'd escaped the gnomes that had kidnapped you because you didn't leave a sacrificial shoe under the porch that morning."

Brittany's grin widens. "I was _five_, Santana, I embodied it a little."

"I think you mean embellished."

Britt rolls her eyes in good humor. "Whichever means I spiced it up so it would be more exciting for you." She then continues, "But my point is, my dad lost me once, but I don't think any less of him because of it."

Santana considers this momentarily.

"You don't think any less of him, do you?" Brittany questions her, eyebrows raised.

"No!" she answers immediately.

Britt's dad is great father and Santana can't imagine herself ever thinking poorly of him.

But her self-deprecating thoughts are still lingering despite her girlfriend's words.

"But I yelled at Lord Tubbington," counters Santana shakily, "I insulted him and called him names."

"Well, that wasn't very nice of you," Brittany reprimands.

Santana feels like she's winning this disagreement now, but she hardly feels any sense of victory.

"But sometimes parents yell at their kids and say things they don't mean," Britt goes on to say, "We all do that. It doesn't make it okay, but it happens. But it doesn't mean that they don't love their kids and it's not like the kids are gonna stop loving their parents."

Santana can feel hope flicker in her chest like a lighter in a dark cave. "So," she ventures uncertainly, "Think I'd be an okay mother?"

"No, San, I don't," Brittany remarks. "I think you'd be a _great_ mom. I mean, look how far you went to save Lord Tubbington today. Why did you do that?"

Even though she's pretty sure Britt already knows the answer, she replies anyway. "Because, I love you and I love him."

The tabby in the cage beside them meows.

"Yeah, well, don't let it go to your head," Santana tells him gruffly, restraining a smile.

Brittany chuckles at her. "You know, it's not like we're gonna have kids tomorrow or anything. You've got plenty of time to reign in those vicious, vicious words of yours. It's not like either of us are exactly pregnant." She looks at Santana mischievously. "Unless there's something you need to tell me?"

Santana laughs, "Oh, no, no worries there."

Britt offers her a wry grin. "Oh good, because then the sacred order would be all messed up."

"Sacred order?"

"Yeah, you know how the song goes." Brittany sings a familiar playground rhyme, "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage." She stops singing and smiles, "You shouldn't mess with the sacred order, Santana."

Santana laughs again. Brittany is always good at dispelling fears.

(Santana decides Britt ought to be the one to chase the monsters out from under their children's bed.)

"Excuse me, if I may interrupt?"

Santana finally pulls out from Brittany's arms to see a heavyset woman with long dark hair tied into a low ponytail standing in front of them. Santana recognizes that it's the judge from the show Lord Tubbington never got to.

Once she sees she has arrested their attention, the woman continues, "Even though your cat didn't attend the show, I still want to present him with this merit award." She holds out a red-and-white ribbon. "Household pets are judged on how well-cared for they are and this cat is obviously cared for if his owner is willing to balance thirty feet in the air for him. I feel like that should be rewarded."

_Wow._

Santana can't help but think that this is totally cheesy and wonders if they're in the ending of some children's book or crappy sports movie, because it certainly feels like it.

The judge offers the ribbon to them and Brittany takes it delicately like it'll break if she handles it too roughly.

Brittany beams at the woman excitedly, "Thank you, ma'am."

The judge nods and bids a good rest of the show and leaves them.

Brittany turns to show the cat the award. "Look, Lord Tubbington!" she says as she bounces with enthusiasm, "You got an award—and it matches our Cheerios uniforms!"

Santana smirks, a sense of pride welling in her own chest. "I guess the higher the cat, the higher it places."

Brittany frowns thoughtfully. "Man, I wish I'd bought him that mushroom earlier then."

Laughing, Santana scores that as the fifth drug reference of the weekend.

* * *

It's closing time and she and Britt are packing up their things to head home.

"Hey, San?" asks Brittany as she's unpinning her bed sheets from Lord Tubbington's cage. "Do you think we could try this cat show thing again sometime?"

Santana thinks she may have just given herself whiplash with how fast her neck turned to stare at her girlfriend.

Brittany, however, appears to find Santana's reaction amusing. "I mean, like, in the future," she giggles, "Like with a different cat that's used to all of this." She pauses before adding, "Maybe with a purebred, perhaps?"

Santana thinks it over. Aside from getting up at an ungodly early hour and the terrifying moment of losing Lord Tubbington, the experience wasn't _all_ bad.

"Yeah, sure," she agrees quickly, "Did you have a breed in mind?"

"Sphynx," Brittany replies without missing a beat.

"You mean one of those bald cats?" Santana double checks.

Brittany gushes, "Yeah! They're super cute and they feel like velvet." She hops a couple times and claps her hands. "And the best part? They _totally_ look like E.T.!"

"So does your nana when she's been in the tub too long," retorts Santana.

"Yeah, but that's creepy—these will be cute."

"I don't know…"

Brittany leans in and kisses the tip of Santana's nose. "Just think about it," she says with grin and resumes packing.

Santana has a bad feeling her future involves a bunch of hairless cats and early weekends.

"Okay," she eventually relents and Britt smiles ear-to-ear.

She's one thousand percent certain that they _both_ know Brittany just won this.

"Okay, Tubbs, it's time to get you into your carrier," Brittany instructs the cat.

Santana holds the crate vertically again and Britt lowers Lord Tubbington inside and shuts the wire door. It takes all of thirty seconds and Santana can't hide her amazement.

"That was incredibly easy."

Brittany shrugs, "He knows he's going home."

Santana takes the merit ribbon Lord Tubbington won and hangs it on his carrier and smirks.

"Santana…" Brittany starts, but lets it go instantly with an amused eye roll.

So she _knows_ it's considered totally obnoxious to hang awards on the cat's carrier to show off just how boss your cat is as you leave. It's about as obnoxious as Coach Sylvester leaving the Cheerios' first place trophies from Nationals in the choir room to annoy Mr. Schue.

She knows, okay?

It's just that Santana loves winning and all those other cats can suck it because she's damn proud of their baby.

They load everything into their car and carefully place Lord Tubbington's carrier in the backseat again. He's asleep after the long day and Santana doesn't want listen to him yowl for the next two hours. It takes Brittany a few tries to do it so that the ribbon doesn't get bent.

Santana taps her foot impatiently as Britt silently shuts the car door.

"It wouldn't have taken so long if you didn't decide to be a show off and hang his ribbon on his carrier," Brittany says.

Santana defends herself, "But now everyone knows what an awesome cat you have."

"We have," her girlfriend corrects.

"_We_ have." Santana smiles, "Now come on, _kitten_, I wants to get out of here," she says with a cheeky grin, "Before the baby wakes up and I'm forced to go all Casey Anthony on his ass and chloroform him."

"You wouldn't do that," Britt shakes her head, snickering, as she gets into the passenger seat.

She slides into the driver's seat and quietly shuts her door.

"Wouldn't I?" questions Santana, starting up the engine.

"No."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because, you're a mouse," Brittany explains simply.

She can hear _Mean Girls_ echoing in her head: "I'm a mouse—_duh!"_

"Why am I a mouse?" asks Santana.

Brittany shoots her a teasing grin. "Well," she clarifies, "if I'm a kitten, then you're a mouse because kittens love mice." That wicked gleam reappears in her eyes. "And mice are scared of kittens."

"I'm not scared of you."

"You would be scared if I promised to withhold sex if you even think about chloroforming Lord Tubbington," Britt says flatly.

Santana says nothing for several minutes, gripping the steering wheel. She takes a deep breath.

"You win," she reluctantly forfeits. Okay, so she's _so_ _totally_ whipped, but it's not really that bad.

Brittany does a soft cheer and Santana can't help but grin.

Britt smiles that smile that crinkles her nose just enough that it makes the freckles dotting it connect. "Now, get us home, mouse," her girlfriend says.

"Sure thing, kitten."

Lord Tubbington lets out a loud snore in the backseat as Santana backs the car out of the parking lot.

"We should get home," comments Brittany as she nods toward the sleeping cat. "It's past someone's bedtime."

Santana glances at her, admiring the way the sunset makes Brittany's hair even more vibrant and luminous.

"You know how he grouchy he gets when he doesn't get enough sleep," Britt continues with a subtle, teasing grin. "He gets that from _you_, you know."

Santana tries to smirk proudly but it quickly turns into a giggly grin that makes her feel like the world's biggest dork.

But who cares if she's the world's biggest dork when it makes Brittany laugh as well?

Because right now is perfect with just the two of them and their baby snoozing in the backseat.

Or should she say _purrfect?_

Shit. She's going to be one of those parents that cracks jokes that are awful and corny and _incredibly_ embarrassing, isn't she?

"Did you remember to pack the litter box?" asks Brittany.

Santana nods, "Yeah, and you got his leftover food?"

Britt bobs her head, "Yup. We totally got this."

"Totally."

Santana can't stop imagining them as new parents trying to remember if they packed the diapers and formula as they drive home.

It's a nice picture.

Lord Tubbington shifts in his carrier, grunting, before curling up and snoring louder.

"Santana, tell your son to stop snoring," whines Brittany.

"Oh, so now he's _my_ son because he snores?" Santana scoffs playfully.

"Yes."

"Just ignore it, Britt-Britt," she advises. "It's _way_ better than him yelling for two hours straight."

They drive on in relative silence for a while, only the sound of the road and snoring cat breaking the stillness, until Santana hears Brittany singing to herself.

"Brittany and Santana sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G," Britt sing-songs, her head swaying in her groove, "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage."

(The song makes Santana's heart seize for reasons she doesn't mind reflecting on for once.)

They fall back into a comfortable silence. Lord Tubbington is still snoring in his crate, but it's fainter now.

"Hey, San?" Brittany starts.

"Yeah, Britt?"

Brittany chews on her lower lip, seeming to think about what she has to say. "Okay, so…there's another cat show next month in Cleves…and I was thinking about entering Lord Tubbington." She offers Santana a sweet smile. "Would you wanna come with again?" she asks hopefully.

Santana eyes Brittany and that damned adorable smile, feeling her insides melting like a crayon in the sun. This girl's going to be the end of her. But, at least she'd die happy.

"I'd love to," she agrees.

So, she'll bring earplugs the next time to survive the road trip and enough catnip to put a Bengal tiger into a stupor so they can actually score some sleep.

Because this whole cat show thing? It's not so bad.


End file.
